


I Told You

by whatsacleverusername



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Character Death, Corpses, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Past Drug Addiction, Jonathan Crane and Scarecrow are Different People, M/M, Murder, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25214110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsacleverusername/pseuds/whatsacleverusername
Summary: A fic from earlier this year pulled off an old SD card, originally intended to terrorize Skype people, now edited and updated to terrorize Discord friends. :}
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Bookworm
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	I Told You

Immediately, Jonathan’s head is pounding as he wakes. Aching. Pulsing with agony. Like a hundred million tiny elephants stampeding around in his skull. He is loath to open his eyes, unaware of the time and unwilling to face light or vision at all with such a mighty migraine, but he knows from experience it will only get worse if he doesn’t find _something_. He’ll explain to Edwin later, he’s not falling back on bad habits, this is a genuine necessity. Groaning as he forces himself to his feet, Jonathan foregoes his glasses, the ability of sight among the least of his concerns as he keeps his eyes squeezed tightly shut, pressing a hand over them as the other stretches out in front of him.

It takes longer than normal, but he miraculously manages to amble down the stairs without breaking his neck, long nails lightly dragging along the wall with a slight hiss. He’d find it humorous, acting out an overused horror trope, if he wasn’t in such indescribable pain. As he is now, he can hardly register the similarity, or the odd smell in the air as he stumbles to the kitchen, pulling open the drawer they keep over the counter medication in and running his fingers over each cap, dropping the bottles on the floor until he finds the right one. Naproxen sodium always seems to work best. Five will do. They’re not opioids, which he’ll be sure to point out if Edwin gets bent out of shape about it. Not bothering to close the bottle, the pills in one hand, he fumbles for the sink with the other, turning it on once he finds it. Haphazardly putting the pills in his mouth, he cups both hands under the water and brings them up to drink, throwing his head back as he swallows. They taste terrible, but they’re better than this agony. They still seem worse than normal, almost salty. Moving to the table, only barely remembering to turn the sink off again, he rests his head against the wooden surface, trying to will the drugs to take effect faster. At least enough for him to function.

After what seems like _at least_ seven forevers in a minute, Jonathan sits up properly as something occurs to him. Or, rather, he comes to his senses. Scent, to be specific. The harsh smell of metal is undeniable, confused as to why it seems so ungodly pungent. Is he hallucinating? No, he’s never had hallucinations accompany migraines, especially not olfactory. He could very well be smelling something outside of the house, or sensing it stronger than it actually is. Either way, likely nothing to worry about, a logical notion he’s more willing to listen to in his current state. Especially since it means he can go back to sleep sooner, escape the lingering pain. That would probably help more. He can’t do much like this.

As he walks towards the stairs, however, he notices a blurry something glinting from the sitting room. He stops with a hand on the banister, blinking and squinting, confused and worried as to why he can’t see clearly before realizing he left his glasses upstairs. Additionally, the metallic smell seems stronger here. Or that there’s more of it. He can’t figure it out just standing here. Gripping the banister tighter, his other hand finding the wall, Jonathan slowly makes his way back up the stairs, it only just now occurring to him how quiet the house is. He can usually hear Edwin working from most places in the old building. He likely still could even if the walls _weren’t_ paper thin. Damned mutation…

Stepping into the bedroom, he fumbles for a moment on his bedside table, struggling to locate his glasses despite there being at most three small things on the surface. He swears under his breath when his fingers find glass instead of plastic, knowing he’s grabbed the lens instead of the frame as he intended. To make matters worse, he finds a dark smudge over the right side, Jonathan throwing in another couple of swears for good measure. Of course the lens cleaners are back in the kitchen. Which means he has to stay downstairs even longer, lest the whatever-it-is stain his glasses. Grumbling to himself as he stiffly moves down the stairs once more, he briefly glances into the sitting room as he makes his way back to the kitch-

Jonathan feels his heart leap into his throat, choking him as he processes what he just saw, quickly looking back again despite wanting to do _anything_ else. His legs seem to move of their own accord, carrying him into the dark, quiet sitting room, towards the small pool on the rug catching the light pouring in through the slit in the curtains. He stops just beside the body laying on the floor, moving to cover his mouth with a hand- Before realizing its covered in dried _something_. His mind freshly shocked into overdrive, he puts the metal and salt together, finding his other hand covered in the substance- the _blood_ as well. All over his long fingers, under his nails, splattered over his palms, the backs of his hands- Hell, some of it got onto his arms, not to mention the smaller pools of it saturating his shirt and pant leg.

Once again on autopilot, he sinks to his knees, hesitating before touching a shaking hand to a pale cheek, paler than normal. He tries to ignore the livid, blue and purple marks around the man’s throat, pin pricks of dried blood littering the skin where long nails cut into it. He doesn’t realize his chest is heaving, that his breathing is quickened and heavy, until he holds the man to his body, gently brushing strawberry blond hair out of the way of once bright blue eyes as if the corpse he cradles is still alive and in need of comfort. As he takes in the terrified expression frozen on the man’s face, he wets his thumb and tries his best to carefully clean the blood from his jaw before realizing he’s only smearing it more.

A sob finally tearing through his shellshocked resolve, he hugs the man to his chest tightly, bowing his head over the other’s and allowing broken sounds to escape him as his body shakes with his anguish. Edwin. His Edwin. His kind, loving, patient, trusting, _wonderful_ Edwin. He’s gone. It’s his fault. He can’t remember doing it, but he _knows_ he did. Even if the evidence wasn’t all over him, even if his sickle wasn’t lying in the small pool of red on the rug, something in him assures that it was his doing. Of course it was. Who else would dare cross him but himself? He should never have put Edwin in harm’s way. He should’ve never put _anyone_ in danger like this. He’s a walking timebomb, bound to lose control and kill anyone at any time. He belongs not in Arkham, but a hole in the ground. Not Edwin. Edwin didn’t deserve this. Edwin trusted him, and he _killed_ him. He killed him, _and he can’t even fucking remember doing it_.

When a large hand comes to rest on his thin shoulder, Jonathan doesn’t look up immediately. He only holds Edwin’s body tighter, further hiding his face. It’s not until a familiar gruff voice says simply his name does he turn to acknowledge the hand’s owner. For once, he doesn’t feel anger or even fear at the sight of the dark cowl and cape, he doesn’t flinch under the touch of the kevlar glove. He simply looks at the Dark Knight, both silent for what must be eons in a single moment.

“I warned him,” is all Jonathan manages to get out, voice a trembling, wraith like whisper.

Batman doesn’t answer. He simply helps Jonathan stand, the rogue not resisting in the least as his arms are moved and Edwin is gently set back on the floor. He doesn’t struggle as he’s led out of the house by the gentle hand on his shoulder, he doesn’t fight as he’s set in the Batmobile and strapped in. He hardly registers the door closing, and another opening then doing the same.

“I’m sorry,” the dark shadow of a man finally says, before starting the vehicle.

Jonathan barely hears him. He can’t hear the engine roaring. He can’t hear anything over the screaming in his head. He can’t focus on anything but the screaming.

**Author's Note:**

> You can imagine this as a dream, fear toxin trip, or alternate event, either way this isn't canon. Wouldn't it be wild if it was, though? :}


End file.
